


I'll make an alpha out of you

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Medieval, BAMF Stiles, Beta Derek Hale, Deception, M/M, Military, Mulan AU, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale is a Dick, Prince Derek, Social Commentary, Soldier Derek Hale, War, pretending to be an alpha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7196846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did they send me omegas, when I asked for men!"  Peter Hale shouts.  </p><p>Stiles clenches his fists in anger.  The scar tissue along his side where he burnt away his omega mark itches.  Stiles may be pretending to be an alpha, but he knows deep down what he really is.  Once an omega, always an omega.</p><p>Or the one where Stiles takes his father's place in a war he doesn't believe in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally revisiting a/b/o dynamics, which is a long time coming since I find a/b/o societies so fascinating.
> 
> In this verse, werewolves are not a thing, so whether someone is an alpha or omega or beta is determined not by scent, but by tattoo-like birth marks on the body.
> 
> Enjoy!

Stiles finds the letter in his father's desk.  He didn't go looking for it, and he wasn't snooping as his father claims he is prone to.  Stiles was just looking for a sheaf of parchment, and if he happened to stumble upon the letter, it was merely by accident.  Even if the drawer he found it in was locked to being with.

He's reading in the dim light of the barn and wants to tear all his hair out and scream to the heavens in anger.  Roscoe nuzzles at his ear, detecting his anger and whinnying softly in comfort.   

The army just sentenced his father to death.  Not with a straightforward beheading, no, this is so much worse, so much more unpredictable. 

He crumples the letter in his palm, and throws it off into some lost corner of the barn.  Roscoe whinnies again and Stiles scratches his muzzle, distracted by his thoughts.  The Crown has drafted his  father in the war, commanding that he goes to the front lines.  Even after he lost his ability to walk without a great deal of pain because of the last war he was made to fight in.

It's not as if Stiles could take his father's place on the battlefield.  No, he's an _omega_ , and as far as society is concerned his only purpose is keeping his future wife or husband's bed warm.

"C'mon Roscoe."  Stiles runs his hand gently down the roan's neck.  "Let's go for a ride."

When Stiles arrives back at the farm, the sun is setting red on the horizon.  John Stilinski waits with his arms crossed, sitting in a chair outside their house.  Stiles slides off Roscoe's back as his father rises, limping towards him with a grimace on his face.  He can hardly walk, Stiles doesn't know how the Crown expects him to fight.

 "Stiles, what did I tell you about staying out so late?"  His father says, disappointment and worry in his tone.

"Sorry."  Stiles mumbles.  He had ridden along the river for a while, before meeting Scott in town.  Sometimes he wishes he could go into town by himself, but even he knows that's asking for trouble he doesn't want to attract.  Folk do not take kindly to a unaccompanied omega, especially one not bonded to another.

"You know it is dangerous."  His father says, his voice chiding, as Stiles pulls the blanket off Roscoe's back.  The horse moves back to the barn, joining the sheep as they chew their cud.  "You know you can't go out by yourself."

Stiles nods sadly and takes his father's elbow, gently supporting him as they walk slowly back to the house.  Stiles' brow furrows when he hears how laboured his father's breathing is after such a short walk.  "I was with Scott."

"You're an unmarried omega, and Scott isn't related to you.  It's improper."  His father says as Stiles helps him into their kitchen, seating him in a chair right by the fire.  His father groans when he finally settles down as Stiles takes the chair opposite.

"I've known him since we were children, we grew up together, he's my brother in everything but name and blood."  Stiles argues, begging for his father to understand.  "How could it possibly be improper?"

His father sighs, a heavy look in his eye.  "Unfortunately, many would disagree with your opinion on the matter, son." 

"I know."  Stiles sighs, frustrated.  He grabs the poker to stir the coals, hoping to distract himself from the topic by preparing dinner.  The room slowly warms as the fire gets going, casting a warm glow over the stone hearth.  His father notices the conversation has ended and picks up a book to read, but Stiles knows he looks up every so often.  Stiles can palpably feel the concern in his gaze. 

Stiles places the cook pot over the fire to heat.  He had hunted and skinned two rabbits with Scott, catching both of them and giving for to Scott for his supper.  Though everyone claims omegas are weaker than alphas and betas, he's the only one in town who can ride a horse bareback and still effectively fire a bow.  He's spent years honing his skill and now can bag quick witted prey like rabbits, fast and efficient.

And yet, there are those in town who whisper behind his back about his family.  How John doesn't keep a tight enough leash on his omega son, letting him run around with the McCall boy without the sanctity of marriage or bond between them.  How Stiles is shaming his family with lewd behaviour, riding a horse like the improper omega he is, when he should be sitting at home stitching his wedding garments.  Omegas are not meant to have calluses, but Stiles bears his with pride.

Stiles has never been good with a needle, he stabs himself every time his grandmother visits, trying to teach him how to be a good husband.  It's always a fruitless endeavour.  Especially when he'd rather be running around with Scott in the woods, clashing wooden swords, and shooting arrows at trees.  Needlework is _boring_.

Stiles tosses the lean meat into the pot with a sizzle and starts chopping vegetables, somewhat bitterly.  If only he was drafted instead of his father, at least he is able to hold a blade without pain.  Stiles grits his teeth.  The Crown is selfish, it was their war that crippled his father and yet they demand more from him?  They already take tithes, emptying his father's coffers for taxes.  They take his father's grain, wheat Stiles sweats in the fields to grow.  Now they want his father's body?  It's too much for Stiles to take.

John must notice his sour mood because he puts down the book he is reading and watches Stiles work.  After a long drawn out silence he finally says.  "You found the letter, didn't you."

Stiles decapitates a mushroom with vengeance.  "Yes."  He says shortly, not bothering to construct a lie, he's not in the proper mind space to do so.  He's much too angry.

Stiles hears the clink of glass as his father pours himself a strong drink.  "I'm signing the farm over to you."  He says after a long pause.

Stiles drops the knife, and it clatters against the cutting board, loud in the silence of the room.  He feels shattered, heart beating fast and erratically.  Stiles know what his father is trying to imply, and he simply will not stand for it.

"You are going to die out there."  Stiles hisses.  "And they're just going to let it happen.  You gave your life to them twenty years past.  You owe those bastards nothing."

His father shakes his head.  "The Hales gave me this land as reward for my service, and I am happy to aid them in any way.  If it wasn't for this land, your grandfather wouldn't have allowed your mother to marry me.  If it was not for the Crown, you would not exist.  I want to help them."

Stiles laughs, sharp and unkind.  "Help, father, _help_?"  He scrubs a hand over his face.  "You can't even lift a sword anymore."

His father sighs,  "Stiles, I cannot desert."

"It isn't deserting if you don't show up."  Stiles argues desperately.

"It's the law, son.  Every family must produce at least one man or woman to fight."

"Then I'll go."  Stiles stands up straight.  "You know I could do it."

John shakes his head.  "If I let you, which I'm not by the way, and your superior officer, or even your platoon mates find out you're an omega, it is their right to kill you.  And do whatever they want with you before then."  John says with a grimace.  "You are my child, and I would rather die before I let anything happen to you."

Stiles feels tears running down his cheeks, as he stares at his father, so many distressing emotions making his gut twist.  "You'll die."  He pleads.

John reaches out and grabs him by the back of the neck, pulling him in close until he can breathe nothing but the familiar scent of wood smoke and sweat on his father's skin.  "Better me than you."

That night when the moon is high, and his father is fast asleep, Stiles tip toes to the kitchen and pulls a few hot coals from the fire.  A pail of ice cold water from the well sits beside him.  Stiles stares at it, wondering if he has the strength to do what needs to be done.  He thinks of his mother lying on her death bed and the promise she made him swear to her.  To always take care of his father. 

He runs his fingers along the leather edge of one of his father's old worn belts.  Stiles purses his lips, making up his mind.  He places the leather between his teeth.

Rolling up the his tunic and pulling down his breeches, he stares at the cursed black rune on his hip, marking him as omega.  The only thing that makes him different from an alpha or beta is that damned mark. 

He won't miss it. 

Screwing his resolve, and searching for every inch of courage he possesses, he picks a hot coal from the fire with tongs.  Biting into the leather belt like he's testing that he won't gnaw it in half, Stiles presses the coal into his flesh.

Screaming around the leather, he pants, holding the coal to his skin until he's sure the skin has blistered and burned.  The tongs drops from his hand and the coal clatters to the floor, now only warm to the touch.  Clutching his side in agony, he plunges a sponge into the bucket, water sloshing everywhere.  He presses the cool material to his hot, fevered skin, sighing in relief.

Later, Stiles limps back into his room after bandaging his wound and swallowing down a few cups of willow bark tea for the lingering pain.  The pain will be worth it when the wound heals. 

After a fortnight of hiding the burn as the farm and all its hands get ready for the harvest, the army summons their recruits just before the frost hits.

He unwraps the bandages, wincing at the twisted red flesh where his mark used to be.  It's scarred tissue, twisted and malformed enough it hides his Omega mark. 

In the woods, the same day, Scott gladly tattoos the alpha double ring around his forearm, and when he finishes, it looks just like Scott's own.

It won't stand up to close inspection, after all, it is a tattoo, not a mark, but as a lowly soldier, Stiles doesn't expect to be examined closely.  The important part is, if someone sees him shirtless, they won't automatically assume the scarring is from a hidden omega mark.

The night before his father is supposed to sign over the farm to him, Stiles takes the armour he keeps shining and polished in his office, and the longsword suspended above the fireplace.  With his own longbow strapped to his back, he quietly steals off into the night. 

Roscoe eyes him warily, as if asking why Stiles wants to go out so late, but he offers the horse a recently harvested crunchy apple, and he no longer has any complaints.

He gallops off into the night while his father slumbers on, meeting with Scott in their usual spot in the wood.  Scott wears his own late father's armour, and it's a bit big on him, but once they reach camp, they'll get it adjusted.

Scott must see something in his eyes, because he pulls Stiles into a hug before saying,  "He might come after you."

Stiles shakes his head.  "He won't, if he does and raises a fuss, it will definitely get me killed.  If he remains quiet, I at least I have a chance to not die by the executioner's sword."

"Don't worry, Stiles."  Scott claps his shoulder, a wide smile on his face.  "I'll keep you safe."

Stiles laughs, climbing back onto Roscoe in one swift movement.  "You do mean the other way around, right?  I'm going to be the one pulling the Argents off you, saving your life and probably winning a nice shiny medal in the process." 

Scott smiles fondly.  "Of course."

They ride hard and they ride fast.  If his father sends men after him, trying to prevent him from reaching the camp, Stiles wants to be one step ahead of them at all times.  In the end, they arrive at the camp a day earlier than expected with tired, weary horses and sore bottoms from all the jumping up and down in the saddles.  It's too late for his father to do anything now, and Stiles lets out a sigh of relief, sending up a quick apology to his mother for putting his father through so much stress.

Scott takes the horses, leading them over to the watering hole while Stiles wanders through the bustling camp, searching for the registration line.  The camp is overcrowded, and Stiles finds himself pushed around by larger men and women.  He is tall, and yet most of these people with muscles the size of mountains, seem to dwarf him.

Finally he spots a group who look more like him: confused and lost.  Stiles moves to stand behind a man with curly, blonde hair.  His shoulders are bent forward like it's him against the world.  Stiles is sorely tempted to offer him a hug, but he refrains, not wanting to seem too nice.  He's not here to make friends.

The line moves forward at a snail's pace, until it is finally his turn.  A man, wearing fine clothing, looking like he would rather be anywhere else, sits at a desk protected from the sun with an expensive brocade tent.  His fingers tap impatiently against the wood as he holds out a hand for Stiles' papers.  Stiles hands them over without a word.

The man looks the papers over distractedly, making note of his status in his ledger.  He's just about to hand Stiles his papers back, but something makes him pause, eyes moving rapidly over the words.  The man strokes his nearly trimmed goatee as he looks up from the papers, finally meeting Stiles' eyes.  He glances up and down his body, gaze lingering on the false mark on Stiles' bicep.

"You're a Stilinski."  The man finally states, voice conniving and sly.

Stiles swallows, throat bobbing nervously.  "I am."

The man's eyes narrow perceptively, "And you're related to John Stilinski, how?"

"I am his son."

The man tilts his head to the side.  "I didn't know John Stilinski had a alpha son.  What about the omega?"

Stiles licks his lips, wondering how exactly this man is so familiar with his family.  His father was not a war hero, only a simple soldier rewarded with land for his service.  It makes no sense that this lord - and the man is most definitely a lord - would know about him. 

"My brother died last winter's past."  Stiles lies, the falsehood rolling easily off his tongue.

The man smirks, "Such a shame."  He says, like it isn't a shame at all.  "But to be expected, the winter was harsh and omegas are such _fragile_ creatures." 

Stiles purses his lips, hand tightening on the pommel of his sword.  Instead of reacting like he wants to and punching the man's face in, Stiles dips his head in a short bow, and takes his papers back, hoping to put as much distance between the two of them as possible.

He leaves the registration desk behind, hoping he never sees the man again, even though he can feel his eyes digging into Stiles' back.  He clenches his fist, that's one person he will be sure to avoid.

"Stiles."  Scott calls out, appearing from the depths of the crowd, leading their horses behind him.  "Roscoe keeps trying to eat my hat, please take him." 

Stiles grins and takes the reins from Scott, directing him over to the registration line.  He leads the horses away, intent on finding a suitable place to set up his and Scott's tent.  The whole camp is crowded, and there's not a whole lot of free space left, but Stiles spots a strangely clear area beside a rather large canvas tent. 

Stiles ties the horses to a nearby post and gets to work.  Pulling his tools from Roscoe's saddle bags he begins hammering stakes into the ground.  Laying the canvas fabric out flat, he threads rope though the seams.

He's almost finished when a dark shadow falls upon him, blocking the warmth from the sun.  Expecting to see Scott, Stiles looks up with a grin on his face, only to see a large, dark-haired, bearded man scowling down at him.  A massive claymore is strapped to his back.  It looks as if it's three times the width of Stiles' longsword and just a little bit longer.  If it wasn't for the muscles bulging from the man's tunic, Stiles would think he's overcompensating for something.

"You can't pitch your tent here."  The man says shortly, glaring at Stiles like he just killed everything he ever loved.

"Why?"  Stiles asks, confused.  Is the man planning on digging a well?  Why else would Stiles not be allowed to set up in this particular spot.

"That's my tent."  The man points to the large hulking monstrosity beside Stiles as if that is explanation alone.

"And so it is."  Stiles says slowly, wondering if the man suffered a head injury in battle, what else could explain such poor conversational skills.

The man frowns, and Stiles frowns right back.  "Are you done?"  Stiles asks, raising his brows, finger twitching, itching to return to his work.  The man opens and shuts his mouth a few times before abruptly turning on his heel and stalking back to his tent without another word.

Stiles rolls his eyes at the display.  Soldiers are a strange sort, that's for sure. 

Stiles can't wait to tell Scott about their grump of a neighbour.  Stiles bets it will get a good laugh or two out of him.  He just hopes the man won't stay a grump forever.  They're going to be spending a few weeks in this camp, training, before they're to be sent to the front lines.  Between that time and now, Stiles doesn't want to get on anyone's bad side.  Lest they seek out a reason to discredit him, stumbling upon his secret in the process.

He quite likes his head where it is: attached to his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 2AM right now, all spelling errors are to be blamed on that...


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles wakes to the blaring of trumpets.  He rises from his bedroll, bleary eyed, wondering why his farm's resident rooster sounds like a brass instrument.  He glances around the tent and suddenly remembers where he is, finding Scott echoing his position, a questioning look in his eye.

"Are we being attacked?"  Scott asks, still half asleep.

Stiles frowns and reaches for his weapons, handing Scott his sword.  If they are, they need to be prepared. 

Stiles unties the tent, holding it open for Scott who leaves, rubbing his eyes.  The sky is still dark, the sun sitting on the horizon, just peeking over the edge.  Stiles is used to getting up this early to feed the animals, but Scott isn't, going by how he keeps stepping on Stiles' heels as they follow the flow of people walking amongst the tents.

The soldiers gather in a clearing, a stage erected before them, trumpeters still releasing their wake up call.  It appears this is a daily occurrence, going by how awake and alert the others are.  Stiles spots the curly haired blonde man from before.  He's yawing openly and rubbing his eyes, yet another town boy unused to waking up at the crack of dawn, just like Scott.

A woman, dressed in training armour walks onto the stage, a sour look upon her face as she glances over the soldiers gathered.  She looks like she'd rather not be here, and when she opens her mouth to speak, her voice is tart and to the point.

"Lord Peter wants me to give you a motivational speech,"  She says, scoffing and making a rude finger gesture, implying exactly where the lord could shove his speech.  "So, I'm just going to outline the schedule for the day, after that, you can all go find your motivation between the legs of a whore."

"Erica!"  Someone chastises from the crowd.  The woman, Erica, sends another rude hand gesture their way.  Seems she's fond of them.

"Okay!"  She claps her hands,  "Newcomers, will team up, one on one, with an experienced partner, and they will impart onto you the full grace of their knowledge, yadda yadda.  When the day is done, you will receive a grade on how well you've fought, depending on that grade, you will either continue to train under your partner's tutelage, or move onto training with the group as a whole.  Hopefully you all won't die, but I'm not holding my breath."  She chuckles.

"Roaring optimist, that one is."  Stiles whispers sarcastically as Erica continues, segueing onto a completely different topic about rationing and 'who's the fucker that's been eating all the bannock in mess?'  Stiles tunes out at that point.  He's wondering who his partner will be.  Looking around the clearing at the soldiers gathered, he'll be lucky if he isn't crushed underfoot by them.

All the men and women are big and tough, or lean and mean, there is no in between.  Scott quivers in terror beside him, so Stiles reaches out and takes his hand, hoping to impart some comfort.  Stiles isn't there yet.  Sure, maybe later when he's facing his partner the nerves will start creeping in, but until then, he's _excited_.

As an omega, Stiles has been coddled his whole life, forced to stay at home or sit in the shade while the other alphas and betas roughhoused with each other.  His grandmother used to frown at him when he developed a tan if he stayed out long enough.  When she left after his mother died, his father at least allowed him the freedom of working in the fields, but he was not allowed to stray from the watchful eyes of the farm hands.  Except when he was with Scott.

Scott was the only one willing to teach him what he learned from his sparing tutors, but even then, it wasn't enough, Scott was never the best teacher.  And yet, Stiles took what freedom and knowledge he was given with open arms.  Scott gave him his bow three years ago and he tore his fingers bloody learning to use it, to master it.

This war means nothing to him.  The conflict with the Argents is a meaningless squabble for coastal land that could be settled with a few trading agreements.  But he will at least take one thing away from this war: knowledge.  Stiles intends to work himself sore, until he can say that he is better than any beta, than any alpha.  He will be a hero, not for the sake of the Crown, not for the rulers who sent his healthy father off to war and returned him broken.  Never for them.  He will do this for himself, and to protect his father.  But most of all, he will do this for all the other omegas who are trapped and feel they cannot escape because a system claims they are weak when they are anything but.

These few months of freedom, blessed freedom, mean so very much to him.

When Erica finishes her speech, she tells the new recruits to stay behind in the clearing to wait for their partners.  There's only a small group of them, twenty or so nervous trainees waiting for someone to show up and teach them the ways of battle.

A woman who looks like she must be from the far east approaches Scott, a gentle smile on her face, a not so gentle eastern blade in her hand.  She introduces herself as Kira.  Stiles rolls his eyes when Scott's eyes immediately soften and he turns into the puppy he often becomes in front of beautiful women.  Stiles wishes him all the luck in the world, he'll need it.

He glances around the group and sees everyone is being paired up, except for him.  Even the curly haired man has Erica standing in front of him.  She seems to dwarf him in terms of pure acerbity, even though he is much taller than her.  Forget Scott, Curly over there will need all the luck.

"It's _you_."  Someone says from behind him and Stiles spins around, startled.  He finds the man of few words from the day before wearing a unpleasant look to rival Erica's, a canvas wrapped pack on his back strapped in beside his claymore.

"And so it is."  Stiles says again, lips pulled up in amusement.  "I'm guessing you're to be my partner?"

"Unfortunately."  The man grinds out.  Stiles purses his lips.  It seems many of these soldiers think they have better things to do than teach those they consider beneath them.  Stiles' excited mood sours.  Suddenly, he desperately wants to put this proud man on his back.

"Well then."  Stiles says with false politeness, "Where shall we spar?"

The man nods his head, leading him away from the others, away from the camp.  They walk for some time, out into the wide open plain, until the din of the camp going about their daily business blows away with the continuous breeze caressing the grass.

The man drops his pack, along with his claymore.  He then drops himself into the grass.  Stiles frowns as he proceeds to ignore him, closing his eyes. 

Stiles gapes, mouth falling open as the man breaks off a stalk, then sticks it in his mouth, chewing like he has not a care in the world.

"What are you doing?"  Stiles asks, even though he knows very well the answer he will receive.

"Sleeping."  The man replies, not even bothering to open his eyes.

Stiles licks his lips, biting back a cutting retort, instead he does the one thing he knows.  He pulls his bow off his back, braces it against his leg and strings it quickly like Scott taught him years ago.  Stiles picks an arrow out of his quiver and notches it.  Aiming the arrow, oh so carefully, he pulls it back.  He feels that familiar strain it puts on his upper back muscles, that burn he relishes more than anything in the world. 

Stiles inhales, feeling the wind swirl around him.  The moment it changes direction to suit his shot, he holds his breath and lets the arrow fly.  He watches with satisfaction as it pierces right through the man's grass seedhead, embedding into the ground by the top of his head.

The man doesn't even know anything has happened until the remains of the seedhead drift onto his face.  The man sneezes, eyes opening and widening in shock when he sees Stiles standing in front of him, still in stance, a bow pointed directly at him.  The man scrambles into a sitting position, spitting out the remainder of the stalk. 

Stiles smiles when he notices a clump of coal black hair waving in the breeze, pinned to the ground by the arrow.  The man notices it too, because he lifts his hand to his head, feeling where Stiles' arrow gave him quite the haircut.

Stiles tips his head to the side, and lowers his bow, the very picture of innocence as the man turns back to stare at him with a disbelieving look in his eye.  "Ser,"  Stiles says, "Would you kindly hand me my arrow?"

The man says nothing as he reaches for the arrow Stiles carved himself, pulling it from the ground, sending all those coal hairs flying off with the breeze.  He hands it to Stiles, an unreadable look upon his face.

"Thank you."  Stiles replies, sliding the arrow back into his quiver.  "Now then, would you kindly instruct me on the proper use of a sword?  As you can see, I am quite proficient with a bow, but I should like instruction on how to properly defend myself, should I find a blade heading for my neck."  Stiles says, voice overly saccharine.

The man simply nods and climbs to his feet.  Discreetly, Stiles wipes the inside of his bleeding forefinger, where the string pinched him, onto his pants.  It bleeds every time he shoots without wrapping his fingers first, and he cannot afford to buy the expensive leather gloves he needs to protect himself.  Stiles has scars on his fingers, but he wears them with pride, a reminder of what he can do.  He may be an omega, but he is anything but weak.

"Don't you have archery gloves?"  The man asks, looking pointedly at the smear of blood on his pants.

Stiles smiles sweetly, his next words anything but, "Don't you have anything better to do than ask me pointless questions?"

The man ducks his head and looks away.  "Apologies."  He mumbles.

All the fight goes out of Stiles at that one word and he nods, accepting the man's sincere apology.

"I'm Derek."  The man says, as he unwraps the canvas, producing two blunted practice swords.  He hands one over to Stiles.

"Stiles."  He says, taking the offered blade.

"How much swordsmanship do you know, Stiles?"  Derek asks, folding close his pack and moving it away from them.

"Not much,"  He smiles,  "But that's what you're here for."

The man twirls the blade in his hand, "If that is so, then the most important thing to remember is to stretch, or you will pull something, and you will die.  Or at least it will feel like you're dying."  Derek looks up to meet his eyes, something like amusement twinkling in his.

Stiles bites his lower lip, holding back a laugh.  This will be _extremely_ enjoyable.

After Stiles stretches his leg muscles as Derek instructs him, finding the movements different from what he does before he shoots his bow, Derek takes him through a few positions.  He walks around Stiles, touching him, and moving him into stances, explaining what each one is for.  He has Stiles hold them for as long as he can, until his hands start to quiver from the strain, before moving onto the next one.

The day passes swiftly, yet Stiles finds himself soaked in sweat by the day's end.  He wouldn't change it for the world.  He's happy.  He's so damn happy, he can barely contain his smile. 

The sun is setting by the time Stiles drops his practice blade in exhaustion.  He gulps water from his flask while Derek collects their blades.  He's barely spoken more than a few words of instruction the whole day and Stiles wonders if Derek is embarrassed by how he acted, or if he is this silent all the time.

Eventually, his curiosity gets the better of him and he asks,  "Why didn't you take this exercise seriously?"

Derek sighs, wrapping the blades, "I do not agree with the war."

"Were you drafted?"

"Something like that."  Derek says.

"If it helps, I'm only here so my father doesn't have to be."  Stiles says and Derek turns to look at him at that, understanding in his eye.  "I don't agree with the war, but I'll gladly take free lessons in swordsmanship."

Derek chuckles, "You won't need many, you have a natural fortitude for the blade."

Stiles shakes his head, "There's no such thing as a natural fortitude for anything, I'm stubbornly determined, is all.  I've had too many people tell me I cannot do what I want to give up that easily."

"Some would say that's an undesirable trait to have."  Derek points out.

"But you wouldn't?"  Stiles asks with a raised brow."

Derek shakes his head, smiling softly.  He sits down amongst the waving grass, patting the ground beside him.  Stiles moves to join him.  "People expect so much from me.  I'm the second child in my family, I was born to join the military.  My elder sister is to be the head of the snake, I am to be the body, but we both feel our positions should have been switched."

"You're the brains, she's the brawn?"

Derek snorts in amusement, "You know, Laura would like you."

Stiles smiles, "She would be one of few."

Derek looks at him, brows furrowed slightly, "I find that hard to believe."

"Let's just say that I too do not fit the role I was assigned."  Stiles says bitterly, feeling the scar tissue on his side pull.  "And many do not like that."

Derek gazes at him, seriousness in his expression as he looks Stiles right in the eye.  "I like it."

After some time, they walk back in companionable silence, pushing through the long grasses.  At the edge of the camp, Derek stops him with a hand on his arm before they can go their separate ways, "Would you join me for dinner in my tent?"

"My friend..."  Stiles starts, trailing off when he spots Scott sitting by a nearby fire, laughing along the something his training partner whispers in his ear.  Stiles smiles, silently cheering on Scott.  "Never mind, I would be glad to."  He says.

"You know where to find me."  Derek says, walking off, presumably to put away their practice gear.  Stiles looks down at his body, figuring it couldn't hurt to find a well and clean himself up a bit.

Later, when he's dressed in a clean tunic, his practice clothes drying on his tent support line, he walks over to Derek's tent.  He stops in front, unsure how he's supposed to knock on a piece of fabric, so he settles for calling Derek's name instead, receiving a quiet, 'come in' in return.

Stiles pushes aside the fabric, finding an opulently tent, magnificently decorated compared to his own spartan one.  There are eastern rugs on the dirt ground, a wooden desk that looks like it must have taken a cart to bring here, as well as an honest-to-god bed.

"I finally believe it when you say you're not a soldier."  Stiles remarks.  Derek sits at his desk, a thick book in hand, a quill in the other as he transcribes from the book to the parchment.  "What are those?"  Stiles asks, looking from the stack of books by Derek's side to the one he holds.

"Treaties, law books."  Derek says with a final flourish of his quill, looking up at Stiles, "You changed."  He remarks, looking Stiles up and down.

Stiles pats his tunic, "I figured it would be impolite to show up in my filthy training clothes."

"I'm honoured."  Derek grins.  He points to the chair on the opposite side of the desk.  "Sit?"  He offers.  Stiles does, as Derek pushes aside his writing instruments, dropping the books to the rug and out of the way. 

Derek stands and walks over to his bed, picking up a cloth wrapped bundle.  "I managed to smuggle a few loaves of bannock from the mess tent before Erica finished it all."  He says, depositing the bundle on the desk.

A whiff of something meaty and smoky rises to his nose and he salivates, "Meat?"  Stiles asks disbelievingly as Derek unwraps the bundle producing a link of steaming sausages.

"I thought you would need some.  You must put on more muscle if you want to hold your father's blade and not fall under its weight."  Derek says producing bowls from beneath his desk.

"Gratitude."  Stiles says, serving himself food while Derek pours them both wine.

When they're settled, digging into their meal, Stiles brings up the books. 

"Why were you looking at treaties?"  He asks.

"To excavate ourselves out of this mess this country has dug itself in."

"The war."  Stiles states.

"What else?"  Derek sighs, "It's proving to be a fruitless endeavour.  I once read about the signing of a particular concordant long ago in my youth, allotting us a stretch of land by the sea, but I'm beginning to think I imagined its existence since I cannot, for the life of me, find a trace of its record anywhere."

Stiles hums, "Could someone have covered it up?"

Derek purses his lips, "I'm beginning to think that may as well be the case."

" _Now, now_ Derek, nothing good ever comes from turning fantasy into reality."  A sly voice says from behind Stiles. 

Derek looks up, barking out a sharp, "Peter!  What have I told you about announcing yourself before walking into my tent?"

Stiles slowly turns around, seeing the man who registered him leaning on the support pole by the entrance.  Peter's eyes fall on him, recognition lighting within their depths.  So much for avoiding the man.

"Ah, Stilinski, is it?"  Peter says, nothing but cruelty in his smirk.  "You know, I was so very curious about you, I could not help but refer to my records and low and behold, I find no trace of your existence whatsoever within their pages.  Your family consists only of an alive beta father, dead alpha mother, and an _omega_ son.  One you claim is deceased.  But according to the latest census taken this spring, a few months after you claim your brother died, he's still alive and kicking." 

Stiles swallows down his fear, nothing good will come of it, instead he sits up straight and schools his expression into one of undeniable surety.  "It must be wrong, my lord, surely there may be discrepancies, human error, and all that."

"Oh but that is quite impossible, Stilinski, I assure you the information is accurate, which can only mean one thing."

"Peter, get out."  Derek says sharply.

"Derek, this imposter is trying to fool-"

"Leave."  Derek snarls.

Peter glares, eyes narrowing as he smirks at Stiles, before shifting to address Derek, "Very well, your _Royal Highness_ , I'm sure the omega whore happily sucks your cock for you.  Carry on."

"Fuck you, Peter."  Derek growls as Peter pushes the tent flap open, leaving nothing but broken silence in his wake.

Stiles stares down at the table, afraid of what he will see when he looks up; accusation, horror, boiling anger?  They're just among the few expression Derek could be wearing.

"Are you okay?"  Derek asks.  Stiles blinks, lifting his head, and meeting Derek's eyes finding nothing but worry in his expression.

Stiles frowns, biting his lip nervously, at a loss for what to say.  He supposes he can deny the accusations, say Peter was speaking untruths.  He can lie all he wants to Derek, who is apparently a _prince_ that Stiles shot an arrow at.  He could deny it all he wants, but for some reason, he does not want to, no matter that it will get him killed.  He doubts Derek would believe him anyway.

"I'm fine."  Stiles says dismissively, waiting for the upcoming fallout.  He waits for Derek to say something, _anything_.  He doesn't expect Derek to say nothing at all, changing the subject entirely.

"More sausage?"  Derek asks, pushing the meat towards Stiles.

Stiles frowns and in true Stiles fashion he feels the need to exacerbate the situation.  "Aren't you going to say anything?"

Derek picks up a piece of bannock between his fingers.  "Let me tell you a story, Stiles."  He says.  "My sister, Laura-"

"You mean the queen?"  Stiles interrupts accusingly, angry that Derek failed to mention that he's royalty.  If Derek wanted to he could have Stiles executed for treason for protesting the war, let alone for being an omega where he doesn't belong.

"Yes, Stiles, I'm the prince, but that fact has nothing to do with us, neither does your status as an omega.  They are both labels.  Labels that that mean nothing in the grand scheme of things."

"Says you."  Stiles says bitterly, "But you won't be the one that dies because you're denying what you are."

"That's my whole point."  Derek says sadly, "It's what I was _trying_ to explain."

"Then by all means, continue."  Stiles says with a wave of his hand.

Derek frowns, "My sister, Laura, was born an alpha, me a beta, it only made sense that my youngest sister, Cora, would be an omega.  My little sister, my beautiful, brilliant sister, treated like she was lesser than us, like she was nothing but a bargaining chip to be married off to the highest bidder, all because she was born with a different mark.  I _hate_ the system."  Derek hisses.  "I detest it, and I admire you for being brave enough to fight it."

Stiles leans back in his chair, surprised.  He opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to figure out what he could possibly say to that.  Eventually he settles on a simple, "I'm just here so my father doesn't have to be."

Derek's gaze softens perceptibly.  "I'm not going to let anything happen to you, Stiles.  Peter can go rot in hell for all I care."  Derek rubs his forehead, glancing down at the pile of books lying on the carpet beside him, "Hopefully, I can end this damned war before it truly begins."

"You and I both."  Stiles says.

 


End file.
